MIKE NEWTON, THE KING OF EMBARRASSMENT

I don't own anything. All copyrights to Stephenie Meyer ©

Name: Models in Training

Summary: "There's a special in class today, children."

Point of View: Jessica Stanley

Rating: Profuse swearing from Mike

-8-8-

"The leading cause of death among fashion models is falling through street grates."

-Dave Barry

-8-8-

"So tell me," said Lauren, clutching her books like hell. "What's going on with Babyface?"

"He's called Mike," I said defensively. "Not Babyface."

"Puh-leaze," Lauren rolled her eyes. "Why would you care anyway? It's not like you have a crush on him...unless you do?"

"I do not!" I said, blushing red.

Lauren smirked like Cruella de Vil. Come to think of it; she does look like a younger, blond Cruella de Vil.

"Sure, you do."

"No!"

"Hey, guys," greeted a certain Mike Newton, from behind me. I turned around, and saw Mike wearing a fur hat.

"You should be sued for that, Babyface," I said, vaguely. "Wearing fur is horrible."

I heard Lauren guffaw, and realized my folly: I'd called Mike 'Babyface'.

Mon dieu.

"Excuse me?" said Mike, turning the trademark Newton-purple. "What did you call me?"

"I wasn't calling you that," I fibbed. "I was calling...her."

Here, I waved my hand randomly at some blond chick with a plus-size figure. Now, guys –you do know that I have absolute nothing against plus-sized girls, okay? As a matter of fact, I have a plus-size figure. It was a coincidence that Katie Marshall happened to be standing where I'd waved my hand at. A very unlucky coincidence, by the way.

"You called Katie 'Babyface'?" exclaimed the stupidest boy I ever saw. "Shit. She's not gonna be happy to know that."

"And she's not happy right now," Katie Marshall snapped viciously, from behind Mike. "I thought I told you guys not to discuss my figure! You know how sensitive I'm about it. How could you, Mike?"

"What the fuck?" cried Mike. "I did nothing of the sort. It was Jessica who did it!"

And with that, the traitor pointed a stubby finger at me. You'd better start writing your epitaph now, Michael.

"Me?" I protested. "I wasn't calling you any name…Angela was."

Okay, okay. I know I should never have dragged Angela into this. But, desperate situations call for desperate measures.

"Angela?" yelled Katie. "What the hell?"

"She's there!" I pointed in the direction of Angela Weber, who had the misfortune to arrive in the hall, giggling like she knew something we didn't. Ben was holding her around the waist, and smirking like Edward Cullen.

Angela looked up, eyes wide with terror when Katie let out a war-cry, and stalked in her direction.

Sorry, Angela. I'll make up for it later. Perhaps an ice-lolly from Sara's Ice Lollies?

-8-8-

"Alright, children," said Mr. Mason, clapping his hands together. "I have a special assignment for you all today."

Are you serious? Children? Do we look like kids to you? Alright, Angela and Alice Cullen do –but not me.

"Today," Mr. Mason almost sang. "We will be talking about role models, and your future career."

"Role models?" hissed Lauren. "Is the guy for real?"

"Sadly," I whispered back.

Lauren swore profusely.

"So, let's begin with Angela here," said Mr. Mason. "Angela, who's your role model?"

"Rosa Parks," said Angela, standing up. "She was the 'mother of the freedom movement'."

"That's a good choice," Mr. Mason nodded approvingly. "What do you want to be?"

"Well, there are many choices –a psychiatrist, a teacher or an environmentalist."

"Excellent choices," said Mr. Mason. "Sit down, Angela."

Angela sat down.

"Now, Mike!"

Mike stood up. "Shaq!"

"Sorry?" Mr. Mason said, confused.

Lauren giggled brazenly.

"Shaq!" declared Mike again. "Shaq's real name is Shaquille O'Neal. He's the top professional basketball player. Michael Jordan too!"

"This...'Shaq' and Michael Jordan are your role models?" said Mr. Mason in clear disapproval.

"Yeah," said Mike eagerly. "I wanna be a basketball player like them when I grow up."

"Sit down, Mike," said Mr. Mason, resignedly.

Mike plopped down, no doubt secretly letting out a bit of flatulence on the way. He's like that.

"Lauren?" asked Mr. Mason.

"Oh!" squealed Lauren as she stood up. "Yeah, Mr. Mason?"

I bet she's gonna make a living selling toilets.

"Who is your role model?" Mr. Mason asked, sullenly picking at his nails. Barely ten minutes, and he's already bored to death.

"Well," said Lauren, lifting up one finger. "My top role model is Gisele Bündchen...literally, Kate Moss, Milla Jovovich, and Sasha Pivovarova. Oh, and Jessica Stam!"

Five fingers up now. Let's pretend the last name doesn't share the first ten letters of my name too.

"I'm sorry?" Mr. Mason asked, horrified. "Who are all these people?"

"They're internationally famous supermodels, duh," sang Lauren. "I want to become a supermodel in New York, or Milan. And then, I'll model for Prada, Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana, and Chanel! And Vivienne Westwood too! And Vera Wang!"

Mr. Mason shook his head many times. "Sit down, sit down, sit down!"

"Now you, Jessica?"

I bounced up from my seat, and opened my mouth.

"I guess I'd like to be a fashion journalist," I babbled. "I wanna work for Vogue –the articles there are totally awesome."

"What the hell is with women and fashion?" grumbled Mr. Mason. "And would you like to tell us who your role model is, Jessica?"

"Well, um –I guess it'd be Anna Wintour."

"Hmph," said Mr. Mason. "Sit down, kid. Katie, it's your turn."

I sat down, as Katie waved her hands around excitedly and outlined her enthusiastic plans for her future.

I hate this class.

-8-8-

"Oh my god!" squealed Lauren, as she tottered towards me on precariously high heels. "Did you hear about Mike?"

"What now?" I moaned, clutching my head.

"Oh, quit behaving like a bitch," pouted Lauren.

"Are you calling me a bitch?" I exclaimed furiously, shoving books into my locker.

"Well, theoretically, yes."

"I can't believe you," I stated flatly. "You're weird."

"Ditto," said Lauren cheerily. "Anyway, news is that Mike tried to ask out our beloved, esteemed master –no, mistress - Isabella Swan."

"What?" My books clattered to the floor, including my diary.

"Yeah, it's all true," gossiped Lauren happily, utterly oblivious to my miserable face.

"Lauren?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut the hell up."

"Yo!" greeted Tyler Crowley, swaggering over to us, Eric Yorkie clamped uncomfortably to his shoulder by Tyler's huge, beefy hand. "What's up, girl?"

"Nothing's up, Tyler," I said sullenly. Tyler rolled his eyes, and turned to Lauren.

"Hey, babe," he said cheerily. "Cool dress, by the way."

"Shut the hell up," said Lauren, and stomped painfully towards Angela.

"Dude," exclaimed Tyler. "What's with the attitude?"

"I have utterly no idea," I said clearly. "She's always like that. You should know."

-8-8-