Chapter Two

My dad thinks I'm some sort of masochist because I take four different dance classes for five days a week. (Ballet for two days) And then voice lessons on Saturday. Well, what else am I supposed to do in my free time? Go shopping?

You know what he says to that? "Why not?" Oh, god.

At least, you know, I'm not bringing home a new slut-bag of a girlfriend every other day.

Honestly! How old is he now? Thirty-nine? …Then again, there was this survey that said sex took up most of a man's mind, so there you go. But really. Couldn't my dad find someone a little more… classier? I'm sure there are tons of great, intelligent actresses and women of that sort who would like to date a fashion designer. But, nooo, my father has to date his stupid models.

I stopped right in front of the steps to Constance Billiard School, scowling as usual. Today, my stupid gray and blue tartan pleated skirt was not sitting on my hips correctly. My winter white turtleneck was feeling itchier than usual. My gray knee high socks were slipping down my legs. The shoelaces on my navy Chucks were dragging along on the sidewalk. Going by my outfit alone, I could foresee a bad day ahead.

"Hey! Isadora, wait up!"

I turned around to see Daniel Humphrey jogging towards me. Good God, that guy is sexy. I first met him when some of the girls at dance dragged me along to some poetry reading. I'm usually not a girl to do whatever it take to get a guy, but after that, I started writing crap poetry and visiting that coffee place a whole lot more.

"Uh.. hey," I managed, adjusting my Capezio bag. "Hi, uh, how are you?"

"I'm good," he said with a (sexy) lopsided smile, taking out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. It was my ballet stationary from Madame Oubliette Dubois. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. "You left this yesterday at Java Lava…"

I tried grabbed it as politely as I could out of his hands, but he still held onto a corner. "Um, thanks, Dan. I was-"

"It's pretty good, Iz." (HE CALLED ME 'IZ'!) "It sounds too much like something I've heard before. I know you have a voice of your own…. A pretty big one." He smirked.

I was blushing furiously by now, suddenly realizing that our fingers were touching. If it was anyone else, I would have bitten their head off for criticizing my work. I hate it when people, even nicely, tell me to change something. I don't take criticism well.

I stuttered a thanks as Dan patted my cheek and walked away. "Bye, Iz," he waved, lighting a cigarette.

Oh, geez. He's a senior! He's SENIOR! GET A GRIP ISADORA! GET A FLIPPING GRIP.