Author's Note: Sorry guys, it's a bit of a short chapter this time around. I had to do a lot of editing, so it basically got cut in half.

Disclaimer: Zoey 101 and all related characters are not my own.

Ruination: Logan
Thursday, November 9th, 2006 (11:54 am)

Hip roll, head toss (flicky hair). Repeat.

It's the way I swagger into the room; eyes glinting, lips full and smirking. It's the way I give knowing glances to those select few, winks to even fewer. It's the way I flex my muscles inconspicuously that makes the girls swoon, and don't I know it.

Hip roll, head toss (flicky hair). Repeat.

I catch their glances often enough to feel slightly uneasy, yet I return them with a defying stare accompanied by the odd half-smile. It's just what I do; some would call it insufferable, vain, egocentric.

I would have to agree with them.

Truth is, it isn't an act. I feed off attention; I crave the looks, the words whispered behind cloth-bound textbooks. As long as somebody is talking about me, thinking about me, lusting after me, I feel alive.

I can feel them watching constantly, critiquing my every move. I guess I'm an easy target for this. I mean, I'm rich, incredibly good-looking, not to mention a ladies man, and I flaunt it all. Because of this, people take it upon themselves to find ways to manipulate my words and actions to fit their own twisted lifestyle; it's almost like I'm some weird fabrication.

This doesn't really bother me, though. I don't yearn for people to understand me or look past my appearance. It's much simpler if they don't. Most relationships are hard for me to maintain because of this, this extraction from people.

So I guess the point is, I'm not as simple-minded and easy to interpret as most people like to think. I mean, I confuse myself constantly. My life's just like theirs; chockfull of teenage trauma and melancholy confusion. Whose isn't, these days?

Now that I'm out on the patio in broad daylight, surrounded by people, it's time to put away all the deeper, highly unorganized thoughts. I love my friends and all, but I'd prefer it if they continue to think of me as someone who lives for Daddy's cash and hott girls. For now, anyways.

Sauntering across the cafeteria, tray laden with fries and mineral water (thrice filtered with ozone added) I pause, smile faltering and heart hesitating. It's not difficult for me to pick out my friends, due to the fact that we sit at the same table everyday, and Chase still refuses to trim that bush he calls hair. Honestly, when is that kid going to give in and use some of my products? I mean, I don't leave them lying around our room for nothing.

Making my way over to the kids, I pick out my ruination once again, confirming that today is no different than most others.

A fake and bake twig of a girl is occupying a seat that isn't meant for her size double zero waist. I can see her chattering incessantly, pausing only to flip a strand of dark hair behind her shoulder, hair streaked with colours and adorned with ridiculous decorations. The others all laugh along with her, grinning at her witty comments, and I feel like I'm the only one not ready to face reality, to accept this new, uncouth addition.

I stroll up to our table in ten quick steps and slide myself onto a bright plastic seat between Chase and Zoey, enjoying the daggers they're both shooting at me. Sure, they think I'm a jerk, but in reality, I'm doing them a favour. I don't know what it is yet, but they'll figure it out and thank me soon enough.

"Ohmigosh, hi Logan!" -insert mad giggling- "Didn't you love English this morning? I loved English this morn…" Lola and Nicole blab a long hello to me (I just nod) before going back to the hair flipping.

Okay, so fact for fact here. It's not that I dislike Lola; she's pretty nice and can be a lot of fun. It's just that I can't be around her for more than an hour at a time. Something about her just... irks me. Something other than the fact she's replaced Dana.

It's been roughly 16 months since I last saw Danger Cruz, and that's precisely 15 months, 29 days and fifty minutes too long (give or take a few days, hours, minutes, seconds).

Yes, I admit; the first little while was actually enjoyable. No more constant bickering, sweaty palms or twisted pit in my stomach. Ten minutes later, however, came the realization that that is exactly what it was.

No more constant bickering, sweaty palms or twisted pit in my stomach.

I'm estimating that's about when I fell apart.

Author's Note: First real chapter down. Haha, took me long enough. Alright, so I have absoloutely no clue whose point of view I should use for my next chapter. Any suggestions?