No, not that type of black book. Ew. Just ew. And you're not a diary either, Bob, seriously. You are the book my male parental unit gave me to write down events that have passed. You are a book that is little, black, and a book. A notebook. For notes.
I am so far unimpressed with my journey in Sky High so far. I mean, I was planning for my life in high school to be the stereotypical chick flick movies. Not that I watch them of course, heh heh. That would be silly.
But my life has fallen into a... routine! Horrifying, I know. I wake up, get dressed in clothing that is either black, white, blue, or a mixture of all three. Then I have a bowl of cereal, kiss the male parental unit on the cheek, and walk to the bus where I will sit exactly in the middle, fourth row, window seat. A girl who goes by the name of Betty, fellow freshman who has thick black rimmed glasses and wears dark Earth colors along with the occasional yellow shirt, will sit next to me, because frankly we both have no friends.
Then I will go to History and listen to Mr. Sparrow talk about his exciting tales of espionage. That sentence made no sense. History class, not James Bond 101. Most of the female population will swoon, most of the male population will scoff at the female species.
Gym will be next, where I will pretend to look like I'm doing something while being partnered up with Layla, by choice of course, and discuss the faults of humanity and their impact on the environment. Magenta will occasionally join in the conversation when not with Zach, who is apparently not her boyfriend at all from the 'where'd you get that idea', 'as if', and 'no offense sweetie.'
Then it's free period for the whole school! I think it might be recess, or brunch, but who knows what they call it? On the schedule it says Break. There I will be in the library reading books on whatever. But I'm not a nerd. Heh.
And they made this funny little class called "Power Development" hosted by some yoga teacher named Ms. Wind, but her powers are agility and heightened senses, not anything having to do with air. Her parents were hippies, probably. There, we find our center, because every power has to do with control. Unless you're Patriotic Boy or Glow Stick. Or worse, Speaking Man: the Gym Teacher of God. Their powers are all on the subconscious level, it happens automatically with just the thought. But Windy still has us meditate half the class. She tried to make me demonstrate my powers for her, but I just glared. Then she tried again. Then I glared and said 'no.' Politely. Then she tried again, I screamed in her face, and I got detention. For three days. And now since I skipped that insane class they added two weeks to my sentence along with Saturday School.
Guess where I am right now?
Eh, my daddy still loves me.
Warren's definition of skipping school sucked. Since we're two pyro-related supers instead of flying Patriotic Boys, he couldn't think of some brilliant plan to actually get us off the campus in the sky. We just hid in the back of the school and listened to his walkman until the bell rang. God, he could have had a plan at least!
Oh, yeah, fourth period. Math. I don't know if I'm in an advanced class or not, but dang, it's boring. I don't learn anything from the teacher, because his face just gives me the creeps, so I have to cram every night after school to do my homework. Good thing that things like to stick in my head... whether I like it or not. But they hath sticketh in my head.
I've made it a tradition to sit across from Warren, feed him half of my meal (which he actually eats!), and ask him his opinion of it. He has his own language, from the few weeks of school we've had so far. Apparently 'whatever' means 'it was good', 'it was okay' means 'that's some tasty shit', and 'ugh' means 'Not your best work. Lay off the pepper, woman!' His opinions of my creations have done my ego good.
Mr. Medulla still scares me in fifth period, of course. And he likes to criticize me. A lot. But he stares at me when I work, so I can't help it if I constantly blow up under pressure! Or... blow things up.
I think my History of Art teacher is God. Or a vampire. He's... perfect. Personality-wise and in the looks department.
I think Janice, this red head who claims she's on the road to becoming an 'actress' and changing her style every day, is my friend. The first day of school she was a tree hugger, the next a trendy pop star in shiny clothes, a Britney Spears theme of course, the next she was Queen of the Amazon or something. Today she wore a leather catsuit and called herself Selena Kyle. Her personality doesn't change when class starts, but as soon as we're not learning things she plays the part of her costume.
Quinn has taken the habit of bugging me, though. Every time I raise my hand to say something, he calls me the Teacher's Pet, when I move my head the slightest inch he hits me with a spit ball, and he pokes the back of my head, or tells other people to poke my head. Which obviously they have no control over. He made me poke myself in the head once. And my nails hurt. Mr. Erick has slapped him upside the head multiple times, though. I don't think Quinn's mind control works on him, either because he's God or a vampire. But I saw Quinn work his magic on multiple teachers without them knowing it, and so far Quinn has had three detentions issued by Mr. Erick.
God, he's awesome. Not Quinn, he's an ass, but Mr. Erick. With a k.
"You really are certifiable." I snapped my head, almost giving myself whiplash, and glared at Warren who was standing over my shoulder and reading my dia-book!
"Do you have no sense of privacy!?"
"You were writing, I don't care." Which was of course "Warrenese" for 'You weren't paying attention to me and I was curious what you were writing about.'
"Well, if you don't care, then why don't you sit in your own white desk and leave my paper alone!"
"Whatever." 'That hurt, Emily, of course I care! I wuuuuv you!' Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration.
Anyway, back to the schedule. And I do not sound like a ditzy teenager on a blog! Stupid Warren, I can hear him mumbling.
After I take the bus home, again sitting with Betty who's powers are so far unknown, I walk the short distance home, kiss my dad on the cheek, do my homework, read a bit, sleep.
And repeat.
This was not what I had planned for high school! I wanted drama, action, romantic tangles and hateful rivalries! I have two friends, three people I can't look at (literally), and a sort of maybe friend who has a language all to his own! Along with a silent bus buddy and a guy with an obsession for spit. Spit balls. Not like.. smoochy spit. Ew. Not even. Ahem.
So, I have a list of things I will accomplish by the end of the year. It's in the earlier pages documenting the eighth grade, but I'll just rewrite it. Without the numbers. Oh, I'm bad.
I will have a romantic interest. Possibly a senior. Every teen needs a crush that isn't over the age of twenty.
I will have a best friend. Someone who I will be able to explain feelings to (all the mushy gushy useless crap like "girl talks". Pfft)
I will have something wrong with my life. Wait, what? I'm a fourteen year old with raging hormones. I've got tons of things wrong with my life.
I will have a rival, preferably popular and snobby. Nobody likes a princess with no royalty in her blood.
And, heh heh, no I didn't get the items of the list based on all of the soap operas I might have read/watched. Ha! Where'd you get that idea?
Yeah. I'm going now.